


You've Got Mail

by wackyjacqs



Series: Bizarre Holidays [232]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:55:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wackyjacqs/pseuds/wackyjacqs
Summary: At first, he doesn’t mind. He’s vaguely aware that someone new has moved into the house next door so when he receives some of their mail he thinks it’s a simple mistake and returns the letters to the correct mailbox without a word or complaint.Then it happens again. And again. When it happens six days in a row, Jack feels enough is enough.
Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Carter/Jack O'Neill
Series: Bizarre Holidays [232]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1234973
Comments: 48
Kudos: 96





	You've Got Mail

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ‘Mail Order Catalog Day’ (18 August). Alternate reality.

At first, he doesn’t mind. He’s vaguely aware that someone new has moved into the house next door so when he receives some of their mail he thinks it’s a simple mistake and returns the letters to the correct mailbox without a word or complaint.

Then it happens again. And again. And when it happens six days in a row, Jack feels enough is enough. He decides to pay his neighbor – and current bane of his existence – a visit, calmly introduce himself and then let them know in no uncertain terms that they need get their paperwork sorted out because unless they’re going to pay him for his own personal paper route, he won’t be bringing any more of the mail around. He finishes his coffee and with a frustrated sigh lifts the letters addressed to _‘S. Carter’_ as he heads out of the kitchen.

By the time he reaches their front door, he’s rehearsed everything that he’s going to say but no-one answers so he decides not to leave their mail. Instead, he heads back home in a worse mood than before – something he didn’t think was even possible – and decides to write Carter a note. And if it just so happens to be slightly passive aggressive in its tone? Well, that’s just tough.

He heads back next-door, throws the note in with the letters, slams the mailbox closed and doesn’t give it a second thought.

* * *

Two days go by before Jack realizes that he hasn’t received any more of Sam Carter’s errant mail and he finds himself breathing a sigh of relief. He thinks the least they could do would be to turn up at his front door and personally thank him for all the letters he did deliver, but he chooses to let it go as his neighbor doesn’t seem to spend that much time at home. In the three weeks since they’ve moved in, he thinks he’s spotted their fancy little sports car in their driveway twice.

He is sorting through his own mail as he makes his way through his house when a slip of paper falls out of the pile and lands by his feet. He picks it up and discovers it’s a handwritten note.

_Dear Mr O’Neill,_

_I want to sincerely apologize for the mix-up regarding my mail being delivered to your house. I’ve been in touch with the relevant companies again, and any further misdirected mail should stop by the end of the week._

_Again, I’m really sorry._

_Sam Carter_

He re-reads the letter again and harrumphs before he places it down with the rest of the letters and glances out of the front window. There’s no sign of their car, so he isn’t sure when they left the letter – or how he’s managed to miss them – but decides not to dwell on the issue as he heads into the back yard.

* * *

It’s well into the afternoon and Jack steps inside the house to grab a drink. He bypasses the glasses and water for a refrigerated beer and is just about to go back outside when the doorbell rings.

He opens the door to find a young man in a cap standing on the front step. He looks no older than seventeen.

“Uh… Sam Carter?”

“Wrong house, kid,” he sighs, then points to the house to his left.

“Oh, uh, well… do you think you could take these in? They can’t be left without a signature and –”

“Why don’t you actually try going next door?”

He glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “There doesn’t appear to be anyone home, sir.”

Narrowing his eyes at the delivery driver, Jack steps out onto the front porch and strains to see down the street. The car is still gone and he quietly swears. He steps back inside his house and meets the kid’s gaze.

“How many?” he sighs.

“There’s only a couple more.”

With more force than is probably necessary, Jack takes the clipboard and pen and scribbles his signature along the bottom. “Just leave them in the hall,” he mutters, “but this _is_ the last time.”

The delivery driver is gone by the time he returns a couple of minutes later and finally loses his temper.

“Oh, for crying out loud! Where did that kid learn to count?”

He can no longer see his hallway for cardboard boxes piled up against both sides of the wall. He doesn’t care if Carter isn’t home – the parcels are _not_ staying. He’s just about to pick up the closest one to take it next door but something makes him pause and look at just what is inside the boxes. He stops short of actually opening the boxes and diverts his attention to the shipping labels instead. Among the items he finds a telescope, parts for a rare Indian motorcycle, and what looks like a month’s supply of blue Jell-O.

He isn’t sure whether this information shapes his opinion of his neighbor – he’s verging between them being either cool or weird, he can’t quite decide – but it still doesn’t change the fact that he keeps receiving Carter’s mail.

With a shake of the head, Jack kicks a box to the side and goes to retrieve his beer. He takes a couple of swigs when the doorbell rings again and something inside him snaps. He slams the bottle down on the countertop and storms to the front door before he forcefully swings it open.

_“What?!”_

A young woman, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the bluest pair of eyes Jack has ever saw, stares at him in shock for a moment before she recovers and clears her throat.

“I’m really sorry to bother you,” she says sheepishly, “but are you Mr O’Neill?”

He really isn’t the mood but _damn_ if he hasn’t noticed that she’s beautiful and he feels something start to flicker to life inside of him. He finds his bad mood quickly vanishing and he adjusts his stance to appear less intimidating.

“Uh, yeah,” he finally nods. “Who’s asking?”

“Oh,” she suddenly smiles and reaches out a hand, “I’m Samantha.”

When he frowns, her smile falters slightly before her expression clears. _“Sam Carter.”_

“Oh.” _Oh._ It’s his turn to look surprised, but he tries to remain cool and briefly shakes her hand before he leans against the door frame. “So,” he says, “You’re my mysterious phantom parcel receiver?”

“I’m so sorry about that,” she jumps in quickly, her skin turning a light shade of pink, “I’ve been meaning to call over, but I was off– I was away,” she amends quickly and Jack’s interest is piqued.

He’s just about to ask if she was away somewhere nice while he played mailman but she continues before he gets the chance.

“I, ah, work over in Cheyenne Mountain.”

“You’re Air Force?”

“I was,” she admits and when he tilts his head to look at her, she offers a smile which he thinks looks more like a grimace. “I’m just a civilian contractor now.”

“Who happens to work for the Air Force?”

“That… would be classified.”

He huffs in response because he knows all too well what that could mean, but it does suddenly explain her odd working hours and why he’s managed to keep missing her and it sparks his annoyance that he has missed her all these afternoons – but for new reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with the mail.

“Well,” Sam smiles as she gestures towards the boxes and pulls him from his slightly inappropriate musings, “again, I’m really sorry. I’ll get these out of your way.”

“Here,” he says, pushing off the frame, “let me help.”

“You’ve done enough,” she insists.

“It’s fine,” he replies softly. “I don’t mind.”

She stares at him for a moment as if she’s trying to decide if he’s telling her truth and, for the first time in a while, he really doesn’t mind helping. He tries to think of something to convince her when she lifts a couple of the packages.

“Okay, I’ll let you help – on one condition.”

“And that would be?”

“You tell me the best place to get a drink around here and the first round is on me.”

His eyebrows rise in surprise but he can’t help the grin that tugs at the corner of his lips as he carefully takes one of the boxes from her. “Samantha,” he drawls, “that sounds like a deal to me.”


End file.
